Hold My Hand: The addictive new crime thriller that you won’t be able to put down in 2018. M.J. Ford

Чтение книги онлайн.

       Chapter 4

      Jo drove quickly, trying to stay focused on the task in hand. But memories kept rearing up unbidden – the same roads she’d cycled along as a girl, past the houses once occupied by her friends, the pubs she’d drunk in on fake IDs, the alleyway off Walton Street where she’d had a forgettable encounter with Dave Philips. Or was it Mark Philips? Not that it mattered now. In front of the University Press, she heard her first siren, and a car sped past going in the same direction. Then another. Drinkers gathered outside the bars watching the blue lights streak by.

      There were signs for the circus too – in town for one night only. Jo knew where she was going without them, and took a left on the way out of Jericho, past the tall student townhouses, over the canal. Port Meadow was a large expanse of farmland spreading right out to the city’s limits, and bisected by a tributary of the River Thames. The first set of gates had been opened up to allow for parking. Two police cars were stationed either side, lights spinning, with officers stopping the queue of exiting vehicles. Jo pulled up just across the bridge, and a uniform came up to the window with a torch angled right in her face. Jo wound the window down.

      ‘You’ll have to go back,’ he said. ‘We’ve got an emergency situation here.’

      Jo flashed her badge. ‘I’m Detective Masters from Avon and Somerset,’ she said. ‘Who’s in charge?’

      ‘Sorry, ma’am,’ said the uniform, angling the torch away. Out of its dazzle, Jo saw he was really young – maybe not even twenty-five. ‘It’s DCI Stratton from Thames Valley. He’s on site somewhere, talking to the witnesses.’

      ‘And DS Carrick? Is he here?’

      ‘He’s about, yes. I’m afraid I don’t know where.’

      Jo climbed out and locked up, then started towards the meadow. Beyond the cars she could see the garish lights of the circus rides.

       It’s just a coincidence. Has to be.

      ‘We’ve got checks on all the exit roads,’ said the uniform, ‘Wolvercote, Binsey, Godstow, the canal towpath, and the bridges that cross the river.’

      Jo greeted the other uniforms on the gates. They were opening the boot of an estate car, with two excited-looking kids in the back.

      It’s too late for that now, thought Jo.

      She showed her ID again to the uniforms, and went through the gates. Carrick was talking to some men in high-vis jackets from a company called Securitex, who looked like they hadn’t signed up for anything like this.

      ‘… no detail is insignificant.’ He handed them cards. ‘I’ll need a full list of personnel from your supervisor. You got that?’

      He saw Jo, registered surprise, and beckoned her over.

      ‘I was only in Horton,’ she said. ‘My gaffer said the suspect was dressed as a clown.’

      ‘Weird, isn’t it?’

      ‘I guess so,’ she said non-committally. ‘What’s the timeline?’

      Carrick took out his notebook. ‘We got the call at 9.43 p.m. Witnesses estimate the boy was taken at 8.30.’

      ‘What took them so long to make the call?’

      ‘Beats me.’

      ‘You said witnesses plural?’

      ‘Stratton’s got them in a temporary office,’ said Carrick, pointing across the site to a cabin a couple of hundred yards away. ‘Kids. Hard to get much sense out of them. Looks like there was some sort of altercation. A lad called Niall McDonagh, eleven years old, got taken from somewhere over by the water at knifepoint. One of his friends was assaulted.’